Keep Your Friends Close, Your Anemones Closer: Part Two

     I was pleased to see that the delicate fibres of seaweed I’d wrapped around the handles of my cupboards and such were still intact, which meant nobody had gone snooping through my stuff while I was away. I began poking through the drawers at random, running my slightly webbed fingers over items that I remembered but didn’t really think of as being my own. I was tracing the coiled silver handle of a throwing knife when I heard a heavy rapping on my door. The distinctive hoofed knock of the Peophin Guard.

     He didn’t stick around to escort me; he just knocked and left, seemingly assuming that I’d recognise that as a sign that my presence was required back in the lobby. I slipped the knife inside the layers of my coat on a whim, then made my way to where King Kelpbeard was waiting for me.

     The lobby of the Maraquan Palace was every bit as grand as the rest of it. The downstairs portion was essentially a circular hall, with several marbled coral pillars supporting a balcony on either side. The balconies were fed by a huge ramp that carved its way up the centre of the hall and then split in two half way up. Stationed in front of each pillar was a member of the Peophin Guard, each heavily armed and outfitted with maractite axes.

     The Peophin Guard are essentially the Maraquan version of the Defenders of Neopia, only without the questionable fondness for spandex; the king chose the species specifically because of their brute strength and unwavering loyalty. Now while I can’t fault them on their skill in combat, their blinkered and unthinking obedience of orders never sat too well with me. But then I suppose it’s like they say: PG born and PG bred, thick in the arm and thick in the head.

     Whilst they were able to handle any subaquatic problems deftly, sometimes Maraquan business spilled over onto solid ground, which was well out of their jurisdiction. King Kelpbeard trusted land dwellers about as far as he could throw them, so asking the Defenders of Neopia for help in such matters was strictly out of the question.

     And so it was that people like me ended up being brought in. Technically speaking, I’m part of a crack amphibious team employed by the palace to take care of the jobs that the Peophin Guard don’t have the legs for. Whilst Kelpbeard doesn’t fully trust anybody with four legs, he makes an exception for a few of us on account of us having gills. We tend to operate on a strictly need-to-know basis, though, since a lot of the stuff I get sent to do requires the employment of, shall we say, questionable ethics. As I said before, though, I don’t ask questions. So long as I’m getting paid, that’s all I really care about.

     Because of the secrecy, we’re all given code names, and not particularly inventive ones at that. I, for example, am referred to as M-14. M because I’m a Mynci; 14 because M’s -1 through -13 succumbed to retirement, responsibility or plain stupidity. I know of a K-8 and an S-3 who get roped in sometimes, but I’ve never met either of them; we hardly go on work picnics or anything like that.

     We get a lot of time off in-between jobs, which is meant to be spent lying low while the heat from our last outing dies down. I prefer to spend the time taking on other contracts, though, from less scrupulous types than Kelpbeard who pay better in exchange for higher risks. But I’m giving far too much away now...

     As I said, I had made my way down to the lobby, where I found Kelpbeard bobbing on the spot, his hands still clasped firmly behind his back and his brow crumpled with anxiety. Deep in an animated conversation with him was a heavily decorated Flotsam. She was swathed in a dress consisting of many layers of fine and expensive-looking pink fabric, and her pale blue skin was caked with makeup in an attempt to disguise the web of wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. As I approached, I could hear what it was she was so passionately telling him.

     “...beloved Chloe. You must bring her back, I would simply die without her, I would.” The theatrical tinge to her voice made me believe that this wasn’t an empty threat. She certainly had the air of somebody who would throw themselves on the floor and begin pounding their balled flippers whilst shrieking about the inhumanity of it all if you were to tell them that you’d run out of ketchup.

     She finally noticed I was there and gave me a shrewd looking up and down, her already upturned nose managing to raise a few more degrees in judgment. Pleased to meet you too, you pompous mare.

     “Are you the one who is going to rescue my dear, sweet Chloekins?” she cooed at me, overemphasising every vowel. Realising that was likely what I had been summoned for, I nodded reluctantly, though at that moment I wasn’t sure which would have been crueller, leaving Chloe wherever she was or reuniting her with Mrs. Drama Bream here.

     In a bid to rescue the situation from heading further downhill, King Kelpbeard interjected with a formal introduction. “This is Madam Anna Nemoné,” he said, absently gesturing towards her. “Ms. Nemoné , this is agent M-14.”

     “How do you do,” she said holding out a limp flipper, presumably for me to shake.

     “How do I do what?” I said flatly, ignoring her gesture completely. Perhaps the weight of her powdered wig was putting too much pressure on some key part of her brain that was responsible for interpreting humour, as she just stared at me blankly.

     “Ahem, why don’t you go over what happened again, Ms. Nemoné, just to give our agent here an idea of where to pick up the trail?” Kelpbeard laid a heavy hand on my shoulder and gave me a sharp squeeze as a warning to be polite.

     “Certainly,” she plucked. She then launched into a dramatic one-woman reconstruction of the events leading up to the kidnap of her precious ‘Chloekins’. Had she been able to have worked a costume change into the soliloquy, I think she would have.

     “So you and Chloe were out swimming around the edges of the Maraquan Circle, when a trawler boat dragged in its net, ensnaring her in the process?” I recapped once she’d finished and mentally taken a bow. She nodded enthusiastically. I continued, “You tried to free her, but once you broke the surface you were kicked free of the net by a pirate aboard the boat?” This time she was less energetic in her nodding, and made a point of rubbing the offended part of her anatomy where a peg leg had been forcefully introduced.

     “Right, now if you could just describe Chloe to me so I know who I’m looking for. Physical stuff is best, like facial features and markings as opposed to what she was wearing.”

     “But of course.” She threw her head back as if recalling a distant memory. “She’s only about a foot tall, she’s a very slight little thing, bless her. I suppose she has quite a large nose, but don’t you go mentioning that to her in case you upset my dear little poopsiepoo. Her eyes are a beautiful yellow, like clouded topaz, and her fur is pi...”

     “FUR?!” I exclaimed, my usual cool exterior slipping momentarily out of sheer disbelief. I raised an eyebrow at her. “Exactly what species of Neopet is your daughter?”

     “Oh good heavens, she’s not my daughter.” She laughed derisively. “Chloe is my darling pet Snarhook.”

     I sensed Kelpbeard shift his weight uncomfortably behind me. “Excuse me a moment,” I said to her, my false grin dripping with saccharine charm. Before he had chance to make an excuse and shuffle off, I turned on my heel and squared up to the king so that our left shoulders were pressed up against each other.

      “You mean to send me gallivanting around Neopia to rescue some posh lady’s fleabag? Do I look like the Petpet Protection League?” I spat in his ear, my gills quivering with anger. If I hadn’t been so furious, I might have realised that my tone wasn’t exactly appropriate to be addressing royalty, much less one with a small fleet of armed Peophins at his immediate disposal. But then again, if I hadn’t been quite so furious, I doubt Kelpbeard would have slumped there and taken it from me either. “I was under the impression I was being sent to rescue a kidnapped daughter, not babysit some ball of fluff! Not for what you’re paying me, no way. The job’s off.”

     Satisfied that I had made my point, I made to turn away and leave. “Wait,” he hissed, grabbing my elbow. He looked down at the floor and off to one side, defeated by the prospect of potentially having to explain to his newest guest that he wouldn’t be helping her after all. “I’ll pay you extra. We’ll settle it when you get back; just don’t cause a scene.”

     “Fine,” I relented, brushing his hand away. I turned back to Anna, my smile now marginally less disingenuous. “Don’t worry, ma’am, I’ll have your – ” I had to swallow hard in order to force the word out between my gritted teeth, “- Petpet back, as soon as Neopianly possible.”

     The glee on her face mirrored my inner pride at having somehow managed to bleed more money out of the usually miserly King Kelpbeard. Although my sudden pay rise had been more of a happy accident than a skillfully planned bit of persuasion, I wasn’t about to look a gift Uni in the mouth.

     Freeing myself from the trappings of red tape with a nonchalant nod of the head, I opted to take my leave and high tail it while the going was good. I decided my first port of call should be Krawk Island. Oh goody.

To be continued...